Hello and welcome to the show. My name is Varun Mukerji and I am presently sitting in the most important building in Pune. This worries me. Here's why.
The wind is pushing the trees over and introducing our city to near cyclonic air. The rain is coming down at a pace quick enough to fool us into thinking we're extras in a big-budget-late-90s Christian Slater movie. I am sitting indoors, safe from Nature's wrath. I have a beautifully clear, large glass window separating me from the disastrous goings on. I see it. I stare at it. It won't stop to glance at me.
Right now, however, Nature's wrath is but a mere spark compared to the flame of fury that is human. My writing usually doesn't involve this mildly poetic flavour. But this isn't a usual story. I find the tone appropriate and feel inclined towards the exaggerated. Sort of like Tarantino. This particular piece does not follow my usual, "less is more" theme.
It all begins at the workplace. My office is filled with large, beastly women who will stop at nothing to get what they want. They devour men and children alike, without mercy or repent. They exude power and strike fear into those around them, all the while chewing on vile, processed weed, the juice of which inhabits their mouths and leaves a red film over their teeth as if to signify something a little more... crimson. Young, strapping men tremble at their feet. I feel intimidated, but I tread on. On towards the core of this burning hell that lives in their hearts. I find nothing. What made them so heartless? The games are upon us. The word is in the air. It's on the streets, and in their houses. People can feel it coming. It is coming.
In this very structure, lies the brain of this monster. The blood is rushing and gushing and pouring into each and every one of us. The force is electric. The atmosphere suffers a gruesome manifestation. Purple coloured tentacles embrace each other to create an aura of evil. The humans are sucked in, and put under a spell. They move about, in a trance, fixed upon a destination. Like an army of ants, they swarm together and disperse into tributaries. In this world of ill-will, reigns chaos. But the message flows through like clockwork. Within this chaos, lies organization, and it is evident. People can feel it coming. It is coming.
Amidst this fire, amongst the monsters, between the realms of hell and earth, sits I, with an uneasy sense of confidence but a brave sense of belonging to this unsteady place of doom and despair. It's as though I find meaning in living amongst the meaningless. The contrast incites me. It inspires me. Evoked by this beast, I trudge towards safety, knowing fully well I can live to battle tomorrow. The end is nearing. I can feel its breath.
The evil in man continues to plague the Earth, and for centuries the bold have thwarted its scheme. This time seems different. Overwhelmingly different. The energy invites us, seeps into our veins, mixes with our blood. We cannot help it. The power escapes us, as we let ourselves become it. Each of us a link, all our blood turning to oil, this machine cannot be beat. Chained together by our own fight to survive, we are now components of the monster, feeding it, making it stronger. That which we loathed once, is now what we rely on. Under the influence, and thriving in it.
But wait! What's this? He's trying to escape! Who is he, why would he do this? Jeopardizing all we have worked towards, attempting to ruin everything. We must stop him. Zing! His claws have dug deep, his talons unrelenting. Why doesn't he submit? Naive boy, don't you know this is home now? You can never *snorts* LEAVE! What a fool!
Ignorant and revitalized, this boy pulls and yanks and tugs. He tries with all his might and grit and uses force he never knew he had. Determined little fucker, the colony admits. Poof! He punctures a hole! Like a vacuum, the pressure ejects him immediately. Then silence. It's over. He's gone. The hole is closed, patched up, more callous with this scar. Once broken, the monster reacts to the virus and immunizes itself. The skin, although withered, is mending. It grows thicker. As it hardens, the citizens are baffled. Could they do it too? Did they even want to? Who was that boy? Oh fuck it, we're in this now. Let's not fight anymore. We have everything we need. Foolish kid, he got lucky. Let's not call it luck. His crime was unforgivable. And he will pay for it every single day. It is his penance.
The machine is unstoppable, unbeatable and infallible. Those who stand in its way will cower and perish under its weight; its glory. It is, and always will be, the system.
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